Stormy Nights
by AllieCat135
Summary: Sherlock discover's John's phobia.


Sherlock stood by the tall window in the living room, the rain pounding harshly on the glass. It was peaceful at this time of night, it always was. The moon was almost full, and the light from the fire glinted in the beads of water that were speckled on the window pane.

He picked up his violin and began to play. It was a sweet lullaby, smooth and flowing, someth ing he'd written earlier that week. Hearing movement behind him, he turned around, and saw John on the staircase, a blanket in hand.

"I'm sorry, John. I'll stop." Sherlock said.

"It's okay Sherlock." He said, and disappeared off into the bathroom.

The sound of John gagging and retching was incredibly distracting.

"John? Are you alright?" He asked, standing nervously outside the bathroom door, noticing John's blanket dropped in the hallway.

"Fucking brilliant, Sherlock." John said back.

"Sorry, sorry." Sherlock apologised and retreated back to the living room.

He took his violin and picked up from where he left off before he was so rudely interrupted. He drew out deep low tones, alternating them with gentle slurred, high notes, gliding the bow so effortlessly across the steel strings.

John came back in, and sat down on the floor in front of the fire.

"Good God, you look awful." Sherlock said without stopping playing.

"Thank you, Captain Obvious." He said, as he pulled his knees into his chest, teeth chattering.

"You're welcome." Sherlock smiled back, and put his violin down. Sarcasm was certainly not Sherlock's forte.

"I feel... Well, rather like crap, actually." John said shakily, his head in his hands.

"I'll make tea." Sherlock said, and wandered into the kitchen.

Tea seemed appropriate, didn't it? Sherlock filled the stainless steel kettle with water, and putting it down on it's base, flipped the switch.

"Make it black, Sherlock!" John called out from the living room floor.

Making tea had become quite a regular occurrence at the flat, and Sherlock had become quite good at it. He knew how long to leave the bag in for John to let out a sigh of relief as he took that first sip, he knew how much sugar to add, and he knew that it was a good fix for situations like this one.

"Here." Sherlock said, standing in front of John and holding a mug out.  
John nodded, mumbled thanks under his breath and took it with shaking hands.

"Think it was the pasta." John said finally, and took a cautious sip of his tea.

"Good thing I didn't eat the pasta then." Sherlock replied. Sympathy wasn't a strong suit either.

"Yeah, great." John said suddenly putting his mug down and sprinting back to the bathroom.

Sherlock followed him in this time.

"Get on your knees, John. You're making a mess." Sherlock said, and John got on his knees, continuing to retch over the toilet bowl. Sherlock disappeared for a moment, and brought back with him a wet washcloth and a glass of water.

"Thank you, strange to see you actually being helpful. Didn't know you had it in you." John joked, and took the glass and cloth from Sherlock, sitting down and leaning against the bath tub.

"Are you sure that you're okay, John?" Sherlock asked seriously this time, and he looked to be genuinely worried for John.

"I'll be fine, Sherlock. Now go to bed, would you? You've been awake for three days."

"I don't need to sleep, John. You of all people should know that by now." Sherlock protested.

"Help me up then, at least." John said, and held and arm out. Sherlock took it hesitantly as if touching him would get him infected, and lead him back into the living room, laying him down on the sofa. He went back to the bathroom and picked up John's blanket, and going back to John, covered him up gently with it.

"You're not so bad at the sympathy thing, you know." John told Sherlock, as Sherlock tucked him in like he were a child.

"Thank you, John." He said, and sat down in the armchair beside John.

The rain and wind rattled the window, and Sherlock watched as John rolled over to face the back of the couch, his hands covering his ears.

"Sherlock?" He heard John's sofa muffled voice calling him.

"Yes, John?" He answered, getting up to sit on the floor beside him.

"Did I ever tell you, that I am absolutely fucking petrified of the rain at, night?" John asked rhetorically, a sheen of sweat covering his forehead.

"Oh, John." Sherlock said, taking John's hand and stroking it with his thumb, doing his best to try and comfort the man. He wasn't used to seeing John in such a state, and he didn't quite know what to do about it.

"Afghanistan. Never bloody rained, but when it did... It was never good." He said finally, after a long silence.

"It's alright now, John. The rain is slowing." Sherlock replied, and pulled a very weary John to his feet.

Sherlock wrapped his arm around John's waist, and lead him upstairs. He even went as far as to make his bed for him, while his friend sat on the floor, trying to avoid a panic that was threatening to overtake the doctor at any given moment.

"Don't leave, please" John said sleepily, as Sherlock stood him up and eased him gently into his bed.

"I'm not going anywhere, John." He said as he sat beside him in bed and allowed their fingers to tangle together. The slow curling of John's finger's around his palm was quite comforting.

"Sherlock?" He mumbled through his pillow, his grip tightening on Sherlock's hand.

"Yes, John?" Sherlock replied, gently stroking John's blonde mess of hair.

"Thanks." He said, and drifted off into sleep.


End file.
